Deity
by RobinRocks
Summary: USUK. 'They said you should never fall in love with an Artificial and here was why.' Solar pirate Captain Arthur Kirkland steals a malfunctioning 704 Artificial from a brothel.
1. I

Deity

_name: kirkland, arthur_

_age: 29_

_rank: captain_

_type: human_

_cybernetic implants: __**y**__/n_

_applic.: left eye_

Arthur glanced boredly at the information rallying itself into line beside his picture. Everything these days had a bloody checkpoint - even a brothel. The tiny needle came out of his wrist, a bead of blood welling on his skin. He swiped his thumb over it, smearing it in before the guard could notice. Artificials were always far too interested in things that didn't concern them. He rolled down his sleeve as the guard - a basic model rolled out in its thousands: young, male, brunet - checked through the information.

"Captain?" the guard asked. "Army?"

"Navy."

"Ship?"

"_HMS Prospero_." Not a lie.

The guard typed this in and searched his database.

"_HMS Prospero _was wrecked last year," he said shortly.

"Your database is wrong," Arthur said. "You can see it down in the harbour plate if you want." He made himself comfortable on the sedan as the guard called up the live feed for the harbour plate and began to trawl through it.

Arthur was used to this spiel by now, tedious as it was. He missed the days of humans doing these jobs - humans got to know you, remembered your face, could be bribed or threatened to let you by. He sighed. It almost wasn't worth the effort.

Almost.

The guard was eventually satisfied that the _HMS Prospero _did, in fact, exist and amended his database. Now they came to the heart of the matter.

"Your purpose here?"

"Pleasure." Arthur had no qualms in admitting it to such an unsophisticated piece of machinery.

"Do you have any preference or would you like a random assignment?"

"Sunstar, if you please," Arthur said briskly.

_tap tap tap_

"He won't be available for another twenty minutes," the guard said. "Another client is currently using him."

_Using_. Arthur frowned in distaste at the word but nodded.

"I'll wait," he said.

"Of course." The guard reached over to a slot in the wall and took out a slim, rectangular bar of glass. He ran it by the screen, downloading the information before handing it to Arthur.

"This will notify you when Sunstar's next slot is open," the guard explained.

Arthur nodded, slipping it into the pocket of his blue officer's coat. He knew that. He started - and not a moment too soon - past the welcome kiosk.

"Your payment?" The guard seized on his arm.

"Oh, just add it to my tab," Arthur said, shaking himself free. "I'm a regular."

He passed through the foyer and into the spacious waiting room beyond. There was a long bar at one end and a scattering of tables and booths done up in red upholstery and brass rivets. The place had a thick woody smell to it, the air laced with smoke from thin cigars in holders. The place was dark, lit by a few old-fashioned gas-lamps - pretentious, Arthur thought - and, through the skylight in the ceiling, the first stars were beginning to twinkle in the purple sky. The brothel, specialising only in Artificials and Synthetics, was called Xanadu - named for the pleasure dome in the Coleridge poem, public doman, pre-installed on every hard-drive.

He went to the bar and ordered a spiced rum and soda, retreating to a corner booth. He tossed his hat onto the table and took out the glass bar, turning it over. It was completely blank.

He hoped it wouldn't be too much longer.

He sipped at his drink and took out the remote for his ship, turning it on. The LED screens flickered and flashed over one another in bright layers, giving him all the vitals of _HMS Prospero_. Three holographic skins, one low on power. He would need to refuel soon, yet another hole in his pocket. Still, he never had been able to get on with the smaller solar ships, they were much too unreliable (and most of the time he needed a fast getaway).

"Are you still flying around in that old thing?"

Arthur glanced up with a scowl. Francis Bonnefoy, the proprieter of Xanadu, was leaning over him, grinning. He had a beautiful blonde Model 09-X Synthetic on his arm, her pearly skin aglow beneath a gown of sheer blue chiffon. Arthur killed the remote, moodily shoving it back in his pocket.

"None of your business," he snapped.

"Have they not figured out that it is three different ships?" Francis went on indulgently, sliding into the seat opposite. "I assume stealing holograph skins is still a Class 1 crime?"

"I won them fair and square," Arthur replied icily. "Anyway, it's none of your fucking business."

"Ah, but what _is _my business is your purpose here tonight." Francis grinned and at last shooed the girl away. These newer models were more realistic than ever; the sway of her hips was mesmerising. "...I suppose you are not just here to drink?" This with a meaningful glance at the slender glass block on the tabletop.

Arthur paused.

"...I was hoping to buy," he said at last, low-voiced. "Not tonight, of course, but-"

"Well, no." Francis smirked. "I doubt you have the funds - you are so keen to, ah... spend your pocket money."

Arthur glowered.

"I am close enough," he said haughtily. "The price you gave me last time-"

"Ah, yes, I meant to tell you..." Francis toyed with his hair. "The market has gone up."

"No it hasn't."

"Oh, but it has. We are talking about Sunstar, non? His model is... how you say, rare? Ex-combat, Model 704, there are not many remaining now. The damage sustained during battle often destroys their systems - they last only one or two years maximum once discharged."

"So surely he's almost obsolete," Arthur seethed. "_You _should be paying _me _to take him!"

Francis grinned.

"Their scrap value is phenomenal," he purred. "They are designed to be robust - that is what makes them good soldiers and... well, good at sexual service. They can take a beating. Their systems are packed with diamond."

Arthur let out an angry breath. He quite saw what Francis was saying.

"Last time we agreed ten million," he said stiffly.

"I cannot let him go for that," Francis said delightedly. "Non, he is worth so much more as scrap alone - and he is _such _a favourite with the clients, yourself included."

"Then what?" Arthur snapped, pounding his fist on the table. His drink rattled. "Twelve?"

Francis laughed.

"Fifteen, then."

"Mon cher, we are not talking about a navigator-bot here!" Francis seemed outraged. "He is worth twenty-five at least!"

Arthur almost blanched but held it under control, his nails biting into his palms.

"Th-that's obscene!"

"There will be plenty of others interested, I assure you," Francis replied carelessly.

"Eighteen."

"Non, twenty-five."

"_Twenty_."

"Twenty-five, I must insist."

"Francis, you're insane," Arthur growled. "Twenty-two."

"Twenty-five million if you want him."

"No-one is going to pay twenty-five million for a decade-old 704!" Arthur snapped.

Francis stood up, preening.

"_You _will." He swept past Arthur, brushing his shoulder. "Have a good time tonight. Perhaps another buyer will have snapped him up by the next time."

He vanished into the hazy glow of the crowd - to harrass more of his regular clientele, no doubt. Arthur pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead, taking a deep breath. His frustration might just boil over - this was the third time Francis had upped the buying price. Every time they agreed on a price, the bastard claimed to have had interest from elsewhere and demanded more.

He moodily finished his drink, already mentally running through planned heists and runs to gather the money before Francis could change his mind again. At some point the sodding frog would have to see sense and take the goddamn money...

The glass bar flickered to life, glowing a bright blue as the letters and numbers settled.

_Sunstar_

_Model 704-1776_

_Status: Available_

_Room: 15_

Arthur snatched up his hat and hurried from his booth, passing through the crowd to the heavy doors at the very back. A wave of the bar over the sensor released the lock and the carved mahogany swept back to reveal a long corridor furnished with palm trees. They had plastic leaves and no scent.

Room 15 was at the far end of the corridor. The doors were all heavy soundproof things with a high-gloss black finish, giving away nothing of what might be going on beyond. Arthur paused just outside 15, patting down his windswept hair and fixing his cravat and gold-edged lapels, his reflection in the door a grey-washed ghost. He put his hat back on, tilting it very precisely. These entrances had to be perfect.

Satisfied, he swiped the bar over the sensor; the passcode unravelling itself and the door hissed back, bidding him entrance into the chamber.

Tonight's holograph was particularly exquisite: before him a descending staircase, glass rectangulars afloat like leaves on ice, and at the bottom a large pool of deep blue water. In the centre of the still water was a platform - and atop this a splendid bed, king-sized, with red sheets and pillows trimmed in gold. The walls were of lattice-work archways and hanging Moroccan lanterns with bright panels of coloured glass, candles within to radiate a bloom of gently turning rainbow light. Candles floated on the the water, too, shining between the silken lilies.

The object of his utmost desire awaited him him on the bed. Arthur hurried down the steps, his coat fluttering after him, and the Artificial smiled, rising.

"Arthur," he said warmly, gathering him into his strong arms. They wrapped themselves about each other and embraced.

"My beautiful Alfred," Arthur whispered against his throat. "I'm sorry it's been so long."

(He couldn't bring himself to call him 'Sunstar' - not when he knew his name.)

Alfred was an outdated model, a decomissioned 704 - designed for heavy combat. For their time, 704s had been top-range, programmed to have different personalities which allowed them to form friendships between one another. They also looked different from one another, created using a randomised selection process in the factories. The intention had been to make them as "human" as possible so that they would have loyalty to each other and fight like a real unit. Their creation and maintenance had been costly, however, and the Army went back to using the cheaper drone-style Artificials - these were far more easily replaced. As for the 704s, those that remained were discharged and sold off: to rich households, service sectors and brothels. They made for particularly good prostitutes: robust, well-trained, human enough. Unfortunately the parts for them were becoming very scarce and most of them were coming to the end of their life-spans.

(Still, twenty-five million was extortionate - even the brand-new Synthetics, specially-crafted for pleasure, weren't that much!)

At any rate, Alfred was particularly debonair this evening, dressed in a black shirt - top two buttons popped, rolled to the elbows - and loose khaki slacks, a sort of old adventure about him. He looked like he'd come off the cover of one of those old pulps from the 1930s, rare as gold-dust now - not that he had ever had the freedom to roam between colonial clubs in Egypt. Why, he couldn't even remember being in battle. His memory had been wiped shortly before he had been sold. He knew only the inside of this chamber - Room 15 and whatever holographic skin he chose to furnish it with.

It made Arthur hold him all the tighter.

Business rudely intervened. Alfred pushed him back, holding him at bay.

"How long did you book me for?" he asked.

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"The whole night," he replied. "Don't I always?"

"I have to ask," Alfred said reproachfully, "in order to assess-"

"Enough shop talk," Arthur growled, taking his face. "Until dawn, you belong only to me."

Alfred seemed happy enough with this, allowing himself to be pushed to the bed. The holograph flaked a little, it wasn't quite as strong as usual, but Arthur put it out of his head. He had Alfred, what difference did the false silk sheets make...?

He undressed him. Alfred was beautifully-made, one of the last off the production line, perfect in every way. His skin was like liquid pearl, smooth, shimmering. Sometimes Arthur thought bitterly that he couldn't have ever been truly intended for combat - surely he had been created for this, to writhe under men who would pay and look so good doing it.

(But he had killed. Lots of times.)

"What do you want?" Alfred whispered. Of course he had an immense capacity for taking orders. He could do anything-

But this too was shop-talk. He asked everyone this question. _Another client is currently using him._

Arthur touched his face. His skin was never warm.

"Please don't talk like that," he said. "You remind me that this is... a transaction."

"I'm sorry," Alfred said. He probably wasn't.

Arthur kissed him again - to stop him from talking, from asking asinine questions. He didn't really taste of anything, his mouth cool and dry. He kissed back, though, his mimicry perfect.

In his method he was clinical; he hadn't gotten any better over the years because he was good to begin with. Arthur thought that surely Alfred - and his kind, the Artificials populating these rooms - didn't get anything from these trusses. He moaned and squirmed and acted the part but surely he didn't actually _feel _anything - it was a known fact that 704s had been designed without the capacity to feel pain. Pleasure, Arthur thought, was surely no different.

His coat and hat were off, his belt unbuckled, shirt open. He lay on his back and looked up at the arc of twinkling stars overhead. Alfred was kissing his way down his chest, his silk-cool hands wandering. It felt wonderful; it made _him _want to ask asinine questions.

"Does it feel good for you?" he asked softly. "Alfred? Does it make you happy?"

"When you come to see me," Alfred said, "I'm happy."

Arthur reached down to touch his hair, running his fingers through the gold. It was soft, smooth, but felt a little off. Clearly synthetic.

"I want to buy you," Arthur went on. Alfred was taking his zip down with his teeth. "Would you like that?"

"That would be nice." Alfred sounded distracted; because he was. His programming only allowed him to really concentrate on one thing at a time. It made him efficient.

Arthur stopped talking and settled back. Often his attempts to treat Alfred exactly like a human yielded disappointing results.

Every man willing to pay got precisely this; not for the first time, Arthur found himself grimly fascinated by this aspect, propping himself up on his elbows to watch. Alfred didn't give terribly good blowjobs, he wasn't designed for it - Synthetics had a better repetoire - and in any case, tonight Arthur didn't particularly enjoy the sight of him doing it. If he was honest, the price on the Artificial's head had put the mood quite out of him.

"Stop," he said hoarsely, tugging on Alfred's hair. "Alfred, please stop."

Alfred came up. He looked confused.

"Am I doing it wrong?" he asked. "You don't like it?"

"N-not tonight."

"Oh." Alfred knelt up. He was bewildered. It was true that Arthur had never asked him to stop before - or admitted that he wasn't enjoying it (even though sometimes he wasn't, he just liked to be close to Alfred and had to pay either way).

"Come up here," he said. "Close to me."

Artificials were physical beings, restless, with purpose; designed for doing. Alfred obediently lay down next to him on the red sheets but he fidgeted. He was confused.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I didn't please you-"

"You don't have to please me all the time," Arthur sighed. "Sometimes I just like to see you."

"Nobody else pays just to look at me."

"Nobody else pays for an entire night," Arthur said sharply. "Nobody else tells you about the outside world or brings you gifts."

Alfred shrugged.

"Francis takes them away," he said. "He says I have no need of them."

Arthur exhaled. He wasn't surprised by this.

"You could kill him if you wanted," he said quietly.

"I couldn't. I don't remember how." Alfred pushed up again, leaning over Arthur. "We can't just lie here, Arthur. I want to make you feel good."

"I wish _I _could make _you _feel good, Alfred," Arthur said. "...But you can't feel anything, can you?"

"I guess that doesn't matter to most people," Alfred said carelessly. "I'm just an Artificial-"

"No, you're not." Arthur sat up, taking Alfred's chin in a fierce grip. "Not to me, anyway."

Alfred pulled away, rubbing at his forehead; the lucious room around them flickered once, twice, interference in the holograph. Arthur took in a slow breath.

"Sorry," Alfred said. "You're just... making me confused..."

Arthur nodded, taking Alfred's wrist. He often got like this when Arthur was overbearing on him, overwhelmed, even sulky.

The clarity in the holograph, though. That was startling.

"Just let me please you," Alfred said. "Then you can talk."

"Alright." Arthur relented, lying back again. Artificials did not possess the whims of humans - when they began a task, they expected to be allowed to finish it. In a way Arthur realised he had insulted Alfred by interrupting him.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

"It's alright. I just want you to be happy, Arthur."

Arthur made himself smile.

"I am happy."

He lifted his hips for Alfred to take down his breeches and underwear, watching the false night sky. He didn't need to look at Alfred, he knew exactly what he looked like attending to these tasks; and he was so brisk about it, so efficient, he didn't fumble about like humans did. Artificials and Synthetics had systems packed full of chemicals to get the job done; lubricants, stuff to make your skin tingle and your toes curl, hallucinogens, even, if that's what you were in to.

He was deep inside Alfred, the Artificial riding him, leaning over him, whispering in his ear to ask again exactly what he wanted.

Well, he didn't want to look, he didn't want to see Alfred grinding on him like a cheap doll-

"Just this is fine," he mumbled, looking at Alfred's throat. Of course Alfred didn't sweat, he didn't look exerted at all, his hips probably really did have pistons in them; all in all he looked very beautiful and put-together doing it, so false that his moans perhaps excited other men but made Arthur want to put his hands over his ears. He wanted to hear Alfred laugh.

Then the voice, perfectly-tuned, became distant, curled at the edges. He was below water, the above rippling, brilliant with light but for the dark splotches of lily pads, candles, petals. There were feet, too, idly beneath the surface, pearl-white. He kicked through the water, trailing like treacle, and pushed up to grasp at the bank. He rested, deeply breathing, the grass soft beneath his wet hands. The feet belonged to Alfred, near-naked in his open shirt, sitting languidly at the lake-side in the sun. He looked like a carved angel at the side of a fountain - all the more because of the large white wings bowed from his shoulder blades. All around was lush greenery - real, he perceived, not holographic, as was the case now. There hadn't been real greenery on this scale since the war.

He reached for Alfred but he recoiled, leaping up. He beckoned, springing lightly away over the grass. Arthur had never seen him move this way before; after all, there wasn't much room in 15, nor much need of leaping about. Arthur pulled himself from the water and followed, pushing through the foliage, following the white glint of Alfred's wings.

How ludicrous, he thought dimly, to build combat or sex robots with such cumbersome wings. Surely they couldn't be much good at either.

They came to a clearing; now there were no trees, just yellow sand and a low blue sky. In the midst of this negative space was a single run-down old bar, a gentleman's club from the heat of Egypt or India, gold lettering faded at the sun-stained windows. Arthur had never been in one, they were all long gone, although there were wan mimicries that his sort congregated in at outposts. They liked the feel of history, rough and worn beneath their fingers. It made them feel real. They were peddlers of the past: the reconnaisance.

He stepped into the club, letting the door swing shut behind him. It was cool and dark within, scattered with tables and wrinkled palm trees; and bursting with patrons, faded, faceless. They were inconsequential, yeilding to his touch as he pushed through the crowd; they collapsed under his fingers, turning to clouds of dust in lurid colours, pinks, oranges, purples, greens. He saw Alfred through the stained-glass air, his long wings blotched with collected colour. There was a door - and, with a glance back at Arthur, he pushed down the handle and was gone.

Arthur made his way through the rainbow haze of vanishing men, each a more ghastly shade than the last. He recalled, dazedly, the Poe story in the salvaged book sold for a new compass; he had wanted to keep it, books were such a rare find these days. The story was 'The Masque of the Red Death', filled with chambers bathed in coloured light and people without faces and a final, terrible moment.

Arthur pressed down on the handle, pushing into the final room. He stood at the doorway, his coat flapping in the heat. This chamber was blindingly bright, bathed in blazing white gold. The floor and the walls were cracked, bleeding light; and there was Alfred, kneeling in the centre, his wings blackened and burnt. His opal skin was cracked, too, run all over with a web of splinters bleeding gold. His face was in his hands.

"Alfred," Arthur said. His voice caught in his throat, heat and dust.

Alfred raised his head. He had gold running from his eyes and mouth. He stretched out his hands. Arthur came to him, forced to shield his face from the sheer heat; and Alfred, he was so hot that he could barely touch him.

Alfred's hands were bloody, scarlet smeared over palms and wrists, even 704s had had to kill with their hands. Arthur pushed between them, coming to the Artificial's core, wrapping his arms around him. There was a vast rumbling overhead as he clutched at him, as he felt Alfred grasp at his coat with those wet red hands. When he raised his head, squinting up through the monstrous bow of Alfred's decimated wings, he saw the white-hot arc of the sun bearing down on them, coming to devour them-

Or... No, the sun was not coming for them. It was _they _who were rising, coming up through the ether, the splintered walls that make up space.

It was they who wanted to be eaten: Icari, about to fall.

Arthur opened his eyes with a gasp. The room was dark at the edges, alight only by a single cheap strip-light over the bed. The holograph had stopped running, leaving them with the bare bones of the room beneath.

His mouth was dry, sour-tasting, his brain still addled, his body buzzing. Hallucinogens, he realised grumblingly, even though he hadn't asked for them. He didn't remember a thing of the sex at all, not even coming - although he had, he was still damp.

"Alfred, I didn't ask for a bleeding acid trip," he complained, sitting up. He'd never enjoyed hallucinogenic intercourse, the pictures were always so vivid, disturbing, and you didn't feel the sex. You could buy drugs that did much the same if you wanted so it seemed like a waste of money to him. "_Alfred_!"

No answer. Arthur glanced about, squinting through the dark. He located Alfred sprawled at the end of the dingy bed, quite still, and his body rushed chill. He crawled over to him.

"Alfred?" He shook the Artificial. No response; Alfred's false blue eyes were wide open, unseeing, his lips moving ever so slightly. Lights on, nobody home. There was a crazed grinding sound - like an exhausted computer, the old sort that used to sit on a desk or a lap - coming from deep within his body.

"Alfred!" Arthur shook him again, growing desperate. Nothing. With a heart like a stone, he realised that Alfred was malfunctioning. 704s were prone to crashing if their systems were overloaded or compromised - one of the many reasons their production had been stopped. They were just too unreliable.

Arthur reached for the wire installed at the nape of his neck, plugging it into the tiny gold port just under his left eye. Cyber-eyes were the new eyepatch - and twice as useful. He covered it as it initialised, watching Alfred with the remaining one. He was completely out of it and Arthur didn't know if he'd be able to do anything for him. Perhaps a part had broken, a fuse or wire blown. Arthur was no engineer; he could fix his ship but a 704 was a different story.

His eye booted and he lowered his hand, casting it over Alfred.

_name: jones, alfred_

_model: 704 MkV_

_serial no.: 776_

_status: army/decommissioned _

_age: 9.3_

_core: ERROR_

Arthur huffed. If it was a core error then a simple reboot should set him right - although it would mean opening him up.

Still, he didn't feel that he had much choice. If he called Francis...

No. He couldn't. Francis had already all but said Alfred was as good as scrap. If he saw him malfunctioning, that would be the end of it.

Arthur took the 704 under his arms and rolled him over. He was very heavy, mostly metal, and it took some effort to get him flat on his stomach. The gentle arc of his spine glimmered under the harsh light, the line between the panels barely visible. Arthur reached up the back of Alfred's neck, hooking his finger under the release toggle and snapping it back. With a sound like a sharp breath of steam, the two plates of the Artificial's back lifted and sighed away, revealing the complex web of gleaming machinery beneath.

Much of the value of the 704s came from the spine: a flexible, jointed steel cable with vertebrae of solid, glittering diamond. This gave them their immense strength; the first of them off the production line had been touted as able to lift ten times their own body weight.

Alfred was stirring a little, aware, no doubt, that he was wide open. Arthur straddled the backs of his legs to hold him still.

"It's alright," he soothed. "I'm just resetting you."

No answer. He wasn't surprised. He leaned close, easing his hand beneath the tight hard cage of the 704's spine to get at his glowing blue heart. It was quite a wrangle - he supposed the military had had machinery to do this job - but he was able to pinch the wire he needed between his thumb and forefinger and yank it out.

All of the lights within Alfred's cool sparkling system went out. All noise ceased, all movement stopped.

Now the fear: did Alfred have enough about him to survive the boot - or was this his last, would he putter out completely when he was reconnected? Arthur held his life, literally, between his fingers. Perhaps this was the end of it.

He wouldn't get in trouble for it, at any rate. You couldn't murder a robot.

He wriggled the wire back in, biting his bottom lip. For a long moment there was nothing, a terrible void in the black room; and then Alfred shuddered and his lights came back on, blinking one by one like stars. Beneath him Arthur could feel the monstrous strength gathering, coiling, and he pushed the panels over Alfred's spine shut and slid off him. He retreated to the other end of the bed, only now thinking to tuck himself in, zip himself up; Adam, naked, giving life before knowing decency.

Not that humans remembered much about God or gods these days.

Alfred pushed himself up on his hands and knees. His face was blank, his blue eyes wide and bright, his entire system recalibrating. Arthur knew better than to go anywhere near him.

The room flickered like a pulse, snatches of pictures rising over the walls before vanishing, each different, familiar; Alfred's wallpapers, his conjured worlds, here the deep blue of an undersea bower, now the lush greens of a forest grotto, the cool white of marble and sleek purple glass, pebbles, sand, a river. Alfred didn't remember any of these things, they were too perfect, they were installed in his brain for the pleasure and comfort of his clients. All Alfred knew was the inside of this chamber - 15, his. That was why he loved Arthur's tales of the outside world (or what was left of it). They were the only furnishings put into his head for his own pleasure.

The dust settled. Arthur looked around, his stomach sinking. The war zone. Alfred wasn't supposed to remember this - the clouds of yellow-green dust, the jagged teeth of buildings. Not much blood, too much obliteration.

Alfred at last raised himself, looking at him. Arthur's blood ran cold.

"Alfred," he said hoarsely. He hesitated, then crawled towards him. Alfred recoiled, looking around - realising the magnitude.

"What did you do to me?" he whispered. He looked again at Arthur; and this was not horror, not wonder, something stranger.

"I rebooted you," Arthur said quietly. "It... it was the only thing I could think of-"

"I remember this place. Union Square, 47 casualties, Stephenson Campaign." Alfred put a hand to his forehead. "They had to scrub us all down afterwards - so much dust." He looked at Arthur. "Where were you?"

He had never asked this before. Arthur let out a cold breath.

"POW camp," he said. He put his arms around Alfred. "I didn't last long. I was too reckless."

"Please don't tell Francis," Alfred begged. "He'll scrap me."

"I know he will." Arthur kissed his forehead. "...Those hallucinogens-"

""What hallucinogens?"

Arthur paused. So it _hadn't _been deliberate.

"What do you remember?" he asked.

Alfred shrugged.

"I rode you, you went all weird and rigid, you know? Your eyes rolled back in your head but I thought... you know, you were just climaxing-"

"I was hallucinating, idiot!"

"Well, I don't remember much else. I guess I blacked out." Alfred didn't add anything more. Instead he clutched at Arthur's arm like a child.

Of course Arthur realised, by no small means, just how serious this was. Alfred had malfunctioned catastrophically, right in the middle of the one task he absolutely had to perform correctly.

"I didn't mean to release hallucinogens," Alfred said. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright." Arthur stroked at his hair.

"Do you want to go again?" Alfred asked. "To get your money's worth?"

"I think it would be best not to, all things considered." This was rather dry on Arthur's part - with a glance around at the mutilated holograph. "You should probably rest. Your system is likely overloaded."

Wear and tear, really, was his thought. 704s were old, even MkVs like Alfred. There was no getting away from it. Now that he had started to malfunction...

"Will you tell me about the solar fields again?" Alfred asked. He lay down on the bed, his head on Arthur's lap. He seemed exhausted; not surprising, since Francis certainly seemed to get his money's worth out of him. "And the coloured lights in the north? Tell me about your ship, too, Arthur."

"I will," Arthur said. "Of course I will - but get your rest first, my dear." He rubbed at the Artificial's forehead. "We have all night."

* * *

They said you should never fall in love with an Artificial - heaven forbid a Synthetic - and here was why.

Who knew how much life Alfred had left in him; and robots were much like computers. Often there was no real warning - one day they just stopped working.

All the more reason for Arthur to act now, if ever he did. Alfred's next client wouldn't keep quiet; if he malfunctioned, there would be a complaint, Francis would hear of it and Alfred would be scrapped. There was no more time: Arthur knew, on his next visit, Alfred wouldn't be here anymore. The 704 was asleep - or what passed for it, flat out on his back, eyes closed, recharging. In his sedated state, the holograph in the room had righted itself to his original splendid display, albeit a little transparent.

Fully-dressed, Arthur sat on the edge of the bed and shook him awake. Alfred smiled sleepily at him, sitting up.

"Are you leaving?" he asked.

"Not quite yet." Arthur held up the glass bar; it still said _ENGAGED_, counting down the minutes until Arthur's slot ended. It was near dawn.

"Twenty minutes," Alfred observed.

"Indeed." Arthur nodded. "Plenty of time."

"Oh." Alfred nodded, beginning to unbutton his shirt. "Of course-"

"No." Arthur caught his hand, stopping him. Alfred met his gaze. "That's not what I want."

"Then what?"

"I want you to come with me," Arthur said. "Now."

Alfre shook his head.

"You know I can't do that," he said. "Not unless you buy me. Didn't you say you were going to?"

Arthur snorted.

"I wanted to," he said. "Talked it over with Francis, even - but he wasn't playing fair so neither am I." He shrugged. "After all, I _am _a bloody pirate."

"But-"

"Of course, it'll be a pain having to smuggle you past checkpoints - I wanted to buy you so I'd have the paperwork and have one less illegal thing on my ship to worry about but there we are. It didn't work out."

Again Alfred shook his head.

"You can't," he said. "We won't get out. They'll stop us and you'll be arrested-"

"I wasn't thinking of leaving through the front door." Arthur looked at him. "Alfred, I'm not leaving you here. If you malfunction again... well, what do you think will happen to you?"

Alfred looked away.

"I don't want to be a burden to you. You could get caught-"

"I'm not exactly on the right side of the law to begin with," Arthur said cheerily, taking out the remote for _HMS Prospero_. "Anyway, I have plenty of places I can hide you."

He turned on the remote, bringing up the vitals screen for his ship. This was risky - stupid, even - which was why he'd given it precisely no previous forebear. Now it was his only option.

"Besides," he said carefully, looking at Alfred. "...Now you won't have to be content with just my stories."

He sat on the edge of the bed, tapping in their coordinates. Alfred leaned over his shoulder, watching him.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Well, we need a door, don't we?" Arthur handed him the glass bar that had accompanied the room. "When I tell you, I want you to break this."

"Break it?" Alfred seemed confused, turning it this way and that.

"Yes - clean in half. It'll put the room offline." Arthur checked the time. "It's almost 6am - business will be finishing up for the night. This is the best window. I expect most of the staff have retired."

By "staff" he meant Francis, who usually slinked off his to own chambers between three and four in the morning.

"We're doing this." Alfred clutched the bar. He sounded like he couldn't quite believe it. "We're... we're actually doing this-"

"I'm afraid I can't see any other way around it," Arthur said briskly. He rose, taking Alfred's arm and pulling him back away from the bed. "I suggest we stand back."

They stepped through the holographic water towards the far wall, Arthur watching his remote all the while. The correlating coordinates were gathering speed, luminous numbers racing.

"Got the pass?" he muttered.

Alfred held up the bar.

"Good." Arthur held up his fingers. "When I say... three, two, one-!"

Alfred broke the bar neatly in half and the holograph vanished; all the lights went out and they were plummeted into darkness for all of five seconds. At the next instant there was an almighty rumbling and then the pink-orange of dawn burst through the wall, haloing the bow of the _HMS Prospero._

Alfred was speechless, dropping the two halves of the pass with a clink. Arthur seized his arm, pulling him across the plain room to the front of his ship. The holograph - quite a splendid one in the shape of an eighteenth-century sloop - was flickering a little at the prow and beneath the actual aluminium was a bit dented but she seemed otherw ise unscathed. Arthur patted her side fondly as he started up the ladder to the deck, pulling Alfred with him.

"Come on," he urged. "We haven't got much time before someone notices I ploughed a ship into the side of a classy brothel."

Alfred scrambled to follow him to the top deck of the ship; here the bridge, this crowned with a glass dome of brilliant colour, and within, bathed in melded light, the control panel. Arthur threw open the door, pulling Alfred with him.

"This is your ship?" Alfred asked, looking around. "She's beautiful."

"This is one of three holograph skins," Arthur said distractedly. He came to the control panel - a slender semi-circle of chrome - and slipped his remote into the slot in the centre. At once the screens sprang to life, clear LED displays appearing before him. They were touch-operated and he moved his hands through them as though conducting an orchestra, pulling all of _Prospero_'s vitals into position. Her engines roared beneath as she fired up, easing back from the ruined wall. She rose gently above the city like a feather on the breeze; Alfred went first to the side of the dome, then slipped back through the open doorway and onto the deck. Arthur glanced quickly over his shoulder at him, watching him pad away in his bare feet towards the stern.

He finished his preparations, setting the course, and slipped out to join him. _HMS Prospero _gathered speed as his boots clicked over the mosaic tiles of the deck; Alfred, standing at the stern, heard his approach, glancing quickly at him.

"Are you alright?" Arthur asked quietly. It had, after all, all been quite sudden. He didn't know if Artificials could be shocked but he thought it best to ask.

Alfred nodded, looking over the edge again. The peacock-blue roof of Xanadu, Alfred's prison since for all those years being decommissioned, was vanishing into the distance as they barreled over the city.

"Yeah," Alfred replied calmly. "I'm good."

"Are you happy?"

"Yes."

Arthur stepped up to join him at the rail, looking down. The city of Eden was beautiful in the first light of the morning, the gilt and gold domes atop the government buildings glittering in a sea of bright marketplaces and lush public space. A lot of it was mere holograph, of course, to cover the damage - but it was still a sight for sore eyes. Alfred was taking it all in greedily, barely knowing which way to look.

"What do you think of it?" Arthur went on, nudging him. "As good as my stories?"

"Better!" Alfred enthused; he pointed to the shoals of brilliant tropical fish gleaming past them. "You never said there were fish in the sky!"

"They're not real, obviously." Arthur put out his hand and the fish swam straight through it. "Just holographs."

"Even so..." Alfred stretched out his hand, too; but the fish were out of his reach, his silvery fingers clutching at nothing. He seemed disappointed.

"Alfred, you can conjure your own fish." Arthur shook his head. "Anyway, that reminds me - I ought to go down and change the holograph on the ship."

He started away; Alfred immediately began to follow him, so he stopped.

"You don't have to come with me," he said, looking at the Artificial.

Alfred tilted his head.

"...Don't I?"

"Of course not." Arthur took his shoulders. "I'm not... your owner, you know. Even if I had bought you... that's not how I wanted this to work. You're free, do you understand that? You're not a service Artificial any more. You don't have to do what anyone says."

Alfred looked at his hands. He did not take this news with the joy that Arthur had been expecting - a human expression. He seemed perplexed.

"Oh," he said at last. "Alright."

"What's the matter?" Arthur couldn't help but be a bit impatient. "Don't you want to be-"

"No, it isn't that!" Alfred took Arthur's arm. "Please don't be upset, Arthur. I... I _am _very grateful, it's just..." He looked out over the distant city again; a long pause. "...I guess I just don't understand."

Arthur reached up to stroke his cheek; cool, bloodless, shimmering in the daylight.

"Well," he replied gently, "you have plenty of time to learn."

* * *

This will be a **two-parter**; next installment to come soon. It was meant to be one, of course, but it ran away with me as usual. XD

The idea of the holographic rooms/public spaces/etc was inspired by the anime series _Psycho-Pass_, which is a really fantastic show. I highly recommend it!

Lastly, this is **Haku**'s birthday fic. It is very late. I hope she likes it anyway! :3


	2. II

So this will be three parts, not two. It ran away with me (surprise surprise).

Thank you to: **Winter-Grown-Lily, IggyButt, neighborehood, Jellybean-chan **and two **Guests**!

Deity

II

The skin was changed: _HMS Prospero _was now_ HMS Mercury_, a holograph fitted in the fashion of a late Victorian battleship, iron-bellied and grim. These were still fashionable outside the cities; and now that they were over the borders, it made sense to alter to something that would blend in. After all, the authorities would be looking for the _Prospero_, a rainbow-domed sloop.

Arthur raised the forcefield about the holograph heart - now in the shape of the _Mercury_, transparent and miniature. This he kept safe below decks - up above there was too much interference from other holographs.

He left the chamber, heading back up the steps. He wondered where Alfred had got to; still mooning about up on deck, perhaps. There was no-one for him to talk to, though. Everything was mechanised on modern ships and there was no need for a crew. Some of the bigger ones had navigator-bots but they weren't terribly talkative anyway; as it was, Arthur had always sailed alone. He preferred it that way: he could go where he wanted when he wanted and he never had to share out his spoils. Still, Alfred's company was very welcome. He had been planning this for quite some time, he a great pirate captain and Alfred his loyal hand, his lover and assassin. Together they would conquer the solar system.

Alfred was not on deck. Frowning, Arthur checked the subdued bridge (replacing the glittering dome) but found that empty, too; so he went to his quarters, wondering if maybe Alfred had retired. His system was old, after all. Perhaps he needed constant recharging.

Alfred _was _within his quarters - not recharging, just sitting on the bed very patiently...

...the way he did when he was awaiting a client.

"Alfred?"

Alfred sprang to his feet, beaming.

"Arthur! I've been waiting for you."

"I... can see that." Arthur took off his hat, hanging it on the hook behind the door. "Why are you holed up in here? I thought you'd want to... well, see the sights?"

"I wanted you to know that I'm grateful," Alfred said, coming closer. "For freeing me."

He didn't sound it, particularly. This sounded a bit rehearsed.

"You're welcome," Arthur said guardedly. He was wary as Alfred came to him and took his hands. "Alfred, I-"

"Hush." Alfred put his fingers to his lips, quietening him; then kissed him gently, quick and chaste. Just a taster. "I wanted to thank you, Arthur..."

Holding his hands, Alfred began to lead him towards the bed. He was slowly undoing his shirt one-handed, watching Arthur intently all the while. His blue eyes were dark, sultry (but it was an effect, a deliberate and electronic dyeing, Arthur had seen it so many times before).

For months and months Arthur had imagined this: when Alfred was finally his, taking him down to this chamber, owning him upon this very bed...

But now that it came to it, he found himself resisting. The gild had come off the image - because in his fantasy, Alfred hadn't behaved like this, business-as-usual. In his mind, the sex, the reunion, would have been more victorious, more hard-won - because Alfred, now freed, wouldn't have wanted sex, it would have been the very last thing on his mind. To persuade him into bed, unpaid, would have the homecoming. Then - yes, _then _- would Arthur know that he was loved.

"Alfred, no," he said quietly. He felt desperately sad all of a sudden and held back, making Alfred falter. "Not... not so soon, it's-"

Alfred shook his head.

"But I wanted to thank you," he said.

"I know." Arthur pulled free, running his hands through his hair. "It's just... well, you don't have to... you know, _thank _me. Like that, I mean."

Like a transaction.

"But I don't know how else to," Alfred said. He seemed quite frustrated. "Arthur, I just-"

"Well, you can just say it," Arthur cut in. "Can't you?"

"But you're not happy," Alfred argued. "I can sense it. And I'm grateful to you so I want you to be happy."

"Th... that won't make me happy."

"It will." Alfred nodded. "It always does."

At this point Arthur knew he would be cruel to suggest otherwise - even though, of late, he hadn't been going to Alfred for sex but for his company.

"Yes," he said faintly. "Yes, of course it does."

"Then let me." Alfred seized on him again, pulling. "A-and if you're worried about me releasing hallucinogens again, I promise I won't lose my focus. I'll keep a good eye on it!"

The hallucinogens were the least of Arthur's worries: of course, ex-military, Alfred was massively strong and now his mind was made up. Arthur could no longer resist.

"Alfred, it's really not necessary," Arthur protested, led to the bed as to the gallows. "I'm not unhappy-"

"You are," Alfred said. "I sense it."

"Humans take moods - you wouldn't understand-"

"I understand the needs of my clients," Alfred said; he easily lifted Arthur, dropping him onto the bed.

"I am not your _client_!" Arthur snapped, righting himself.

"My master, then," Alfred said lightly; he clambered over him, his weight pinning him in place.

"No, not your master, either!" Arthur tried to push him off. "Alfred, get off at once!"

Alfred looked down at him very intently.

"Is that an order?" he asked.

"No, just...!" Arthur pushed and pushed at him but couldn't move him a millimetre. "Fine, _yes_! It's an order! Get off!"

"Of course, Arthur." Alfred relented immediately, sliding off. Arthur sat up, a bit winded from the Artificial's weight.

"Thank you," he said coolly, rubbing at his middle.

"You don't have to thank me," Alfred replied. "It was an order. I always obey orders."

"And if I hadn't ordered you?" Arthur asked bitterly. "What then?"

Alfred shrugged. He seemed noncommital.

Arthur snorted.

"I doubt you would have forced yourself on me."

"I don't know," Alfred said. "Maybe. I don't have forethought, so I don't know."

"Well, I don't expect anyone has ever refused you before," Arthur muttered.

Alfred shook his head.

"I'm a service Artificial," he said. "Clients come to me for pleasure. They give me orders. I obey them."

"You don't have to do any of that anymore!" Arthur was exasperated.

Alfred actually scowled at him - or the closest he could get to one, anyway.

"I'm programmed to obey orders, Arthur," he said. "I was built to be a soldier."

"A soldier, yes," Arthur replied. "Not a sex slave."

Alfred looked at the floor.

"They're about the same," he said. "...From what I remember, which isn't a whole lot."

"Not much grounds for comparison, then," Arthur said coldly.

"I wish you'd just let me do what I'm programmed to do!" Alfred exclaimed; it was the nearest to cross that Arthur had ever seen him. "You're making me confused!"

"Well, then perhaps you need to be reprogrammed," Arthur said. He refused to back down.

"I probably still won't be what you want me to be," Alfred snapped. "I'm not a Synthetic, okay? I'm not designed so... so you can marry me or whatever it is you want from me! I'm a basic military model. I take orders. I kill people, I fuck people. That's it."

"That's not true," Arthur argued. "You're very advanced, Alfred. I've seen state-of-the-art Synthetics who can't hold half a conversation-"

"Yeah, well, I'm not a human, in any case," Alfred said abruptly. "I wish you'd stop treating me like one."

Arthur looked at him. He said nothing. He felt humiliated - more by himself than by Alfred, whom he knew to have no malice in him. He hadn't the capacity for it.

"Guess I'll just be blunt," Alfred said, meeting his gaze. "To thank you for getting me out of Xanadu, I would like to pleasure you. Is that alright with you?"

"No," Arthur said bitterly. "It isn't."

"So you don't want me to?"

"No."

"Okay." Alfred got up, nodding. He didn't seem angry anymore; in fact he looked relieved to at least have things spelled out for him. "Then when you want to."

He did up his shirt, crossing the room. Arthur watched him go. He hadn't even undone one button but he felt torn open, unable to gather himself together.

"I don't want you to shag me because you feel you owe me!" he shouted at Alfred. "That's even worse than me _paying _for it!"

Alfred stopped. Again he was clearly perplexed.

"But you always paid for it before," he said. "Anyway, now _I'm _paying _you_. What's wrong with that?"

"Because that's not what love is!" Arthur knew he was off his rocker, screaming at a robot about love, but he didn't care.

Of course Alfred just tilted his head.

"Love? What's that?"

"Nothing." Arthur flopped back on the bed. He was exhausted. "Get out. That's an order."

"Of course." No offence taken, no further questions; Alfred simply left, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Arthur rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. He was upset and angry and completely mortified by how much of a mistake he'd made. Alfred was a songbird; he belonged in a pretty cage, an exquisite thing, out of reach, for pleasure only. Uncaged - and what was to be done with him? All he wanted was to sing and he didn't need the bars for that.

And Arthur, meanwhile, what a fool to covet something so empty, to fall in love with a smile. It wasn't Alfred's fault, of course. He knew nothing of the pedestal that, since Arthur first set eyes on him, he had been placed upon. He didn't understand.

Robots have no forethought. They do not dream.

* * *

The fire, at least, was real. Arthur sat on the floor before it, eating an apple. The main parlour was a Baroque style, heavy on the gold accents and red velvet. He was actually somewhat bored of it but he only had the one holograph and it was preferable to a plain room.

Alfred was still hovering determinedly around him, although Arthur had managed to distract him with a box of old salvage: broken bits and pieces of god-knows-what from raids. There was big money on the black market and at outposts for pre-war things that technology had since rendered redundant: telephones with cords, pieces of cars, video tapes, cigarette lighters, books. All illegal, of course - the authorities didn't want people remembering too much - but there were plenty of collectors willing to pay big money for their private hoardes. The money made the job worth the risk in Arthur's book.

Alfred came over, easing himself down onto the rug. Arthur glanced at him: he was holding a small wooden doll, badly battered. It had once been red but most of the paint had flaked off, leaving a rust-coloured tint to the wood beneath. Arthur dimly remembered it but couldn't remember where he'd got it from. A job-lot, maybe. It wasn't worth anything, regardless. No collector would want it in that condition.

"What's this?" Alfred asked, holding it out.

"It's a child's toy, I think," Arthur replied. "Looks like it was a wooden soldier. They used to make sets of them."

Alfred turned it over, frowning.

"It doesn't look like a soldier," he said.

"They used to wear uniforms like that."

"When?"

"I don't know. A long time ago."

"Red's kind of a stupid colour," Alfred said. "I bet their enemies saw them a mile away."

"I expect they did." Arthur finished his apple. "It was probably so the blood didn't show up."

"Oh." Alfred reached out, setting the toy soldier down on the floor. It wobbled a little but held its balance, standing on its own. "...I like it."

"You can have it, then." Arthur tossed his apple core onto the fire. It went up with a bright spark and a sizzle of juice.

He had always made nicer gifts to Alfred: enamelled combs, gilt coffee spoons, pieces of decorative mirror - though, now knowing that Francis had taken them, bitterly wished he hadn't. Still, he was surprised Alfred liked a ruined wooden toy so much.

"Can I really?" Alfred looked at him.

"Yes. It's not worth anything."

"Thank you, Arthur." Alfred picked it up again, clutching it in his cold pearly hand. "I'll treasure it - and Francis can't take this one off me."

"That bastard," Arthur seethed. "I bet he sold them."

"Were they worth much?"

"Not really - but he would have got a few coins for them."

"You shouldn't have given them to me," Alfred said.

"I know." Arthur looked at him wryly. "What can I say? I'm stupidly besotted with you."

He didn't expect Alfred to understand that word, either; so he was surprised when the 704 sat up straighter on hearing it.

"Besotted," Alfred said. "Similar to 'love'; an obssessive and overwhelming desire for or towards an object of affection."

Arthur blinked.

"That's... the scientific way of putting it," he said. He narrowed his eyes. "How do you know that? You didn't understand the word before."

"I calibrated my system with that of your ship," Alfred replied cheerfully. "Once I was online, I was able to do a database search for the word 'love'. I was intrigued. You seemed pretty hung up on it. It was much easier than I expected - my system was able to integrate with your ship's interface with very little resistance."

"I see," Arthur said coolly. He didn't expect that Alfred's understanding was any further embellished, all the same. "And your thoughts on the matter?"

"Obssession." Alfred was fidgeting with the toy soldier. "A word with negative connotations. A sense of devouring."

"Well, yes, if you do _insist _on putting it scientifically," Arthur said bitterly, "then there's not much good to say about it - but then you could say the same about war and sex."

"But war and sex are mathematical," Alfred said, "so I understand them."

Arthur rolled his eyes impatiently. He realised that he had never spent so long with Alfred, never attempted to hold such an extended dialogue with him. It was exhausting - but payout for his idiocy, thinking it would be simple to shack up with a machine who thought in binary.

"I wish I understood, though," Alfred went on. "I want to know why it's good."

"Why what's good?"

"To be obssessed."

Their eyes locked. Alfred's electric blues were potent, going beneath his clothes, searing deep into his skin.

"It's not good," Arthur said, low-voiced. He wanted to start easing himself away. "It's stupid, it's..."

"Mm?" Alfred crawled closer to him.

"It's not just about sex." Arthur put his hand to Alfred's shoulder, stopping him. "I mean, there are other ways... of, well..."

"Humans desire physical closeness," Alfred said. "Or, at least, most of them express need for it in some form or other. That's why places like Xanadu are such big business."

"Indeed - places that sell happiness in short bursts," Arthur said coldly.

Alfred shrugged.

"Isn't that what people want?"

Arthur sighed, looking at the fire.

"I suppose so," he muttered. He felt defeated. "Freedom from abject misery, bought in one-hour slots. Bury your woes inside a jewel-skinned ex-soldier."

"Sshh." Alfred rubbed at his cheek. "It's okay." He blinked, withdrawing his hand; his thumb was wet. "Water...?"

"It's nothing." Arthur wiped at his eyes on his cuff. "It's... I just..."

"Okay." Alfred gently took his face and kissed him. The conversation was over.

Athur didn't resist him. There didn't seem to be much point; this was the only form of communication Alfred seemed to have any real grasp of. He let the Artificial push him to the rug, slide his legs apart, undo his clothing. Alfred was gentle, attentive; twice he asked if Arthur wanted to. Both times Arthur answered yes, watching the fire. He couldn't make him understand.

The cold pulse of Alfred's mouth on his skin, the static of his fingertips; Arthur was a bystander to this programmed worship, the Artificial's route over his body familiar, rehearsed. He gave in because it was easier, because it was less painful than the lesson - that humans were stupid, notorious for not wanting what they thought they did. Letting Alfred fuck him was far less humiliating.

It was simply a transaction. Nobody had to be wrong.

* * *

Arthur took his teacup to the bridge - late Victorian, painted with blue roses - to prepare for entering into the outpost. Alfred was still hanging around him, all but in his shadow, which Arthur found to be deeply annoying.

"Stay back, will you?" Arthur flapped his hand at him irritably. "I need to concentrate."

"Sorry." Alfred hung back, fidgeting with the toy soldier.

Arthur sank into the chair before the control panel, setting his teacup aside. Port Opal was the largest outpost - a small town in its own right - but manouvering into it was tricky; there were several safeguards in place to prevent the police or other unsavoury forces from cruising in. Arthur held his breath in guiding _HMS Mercury _through the gauntlet of solar blades designed to rip open the hull of a large or careless ship. He was a practiced hand at it but he still needed to concentrate.

They came to the gate, a great arc just at the entrance of the harbour plate. Now the screens at the control panel linked and initialised as the gate began its check.

_HMS Britannia_

_Captain Kirkland, Arthur_

_No. of holographs: 3_

_HMS Prospero, HMS Mercury, RMS Fitzgerald_

_Access: APPROVED_

A pale green sheet of light came down from the gate, as fine as a veil. This was the scan - to check for law enforcement weapons and the like. Arthur began to slowly nudge the _Mercury _forwards, the scan passing though the ship. Arthur couldn't help but close his eyes as it passed through him, he couldn't help it even though it was painless; he opened them again, shaking his head, to watch the completion bar crawling higher-

There was an explosive sound from behind him and the ship shuddered violently. The screens all flipped over to _ERROR_, the message flashing in bright scarlet. Arthur looked over his shoulder, finding that the holographic interior of _HMS Mercury_'s bridge was peeling away, replaced by flat static images of...

"Alfred!"

The 704 had collapsed in a heap, quivering, surrounded by jumping, disjointed pictures of the warzone. They capered over the walls of the ship like creatures from a nightmare, kaleidoscoping over the contours. Arthur pulled himself from his chair, going to Alfred's side. He seized the Artificial's shoulder, shaking him. There was no response.

"Fuck, you're still online, aren't you?" Arthur hissed; he realised that Alfred obviously hadn't severed the link when he'd done his search for the meaning of 'love'. He knew he couldn't reboot him while he was still online - it would damage the ship's system. He could only hope that Alfred's malfunctioning core hadn't wreaked havoc already...

He went back to the control panel, fumbling around with the keys to try and override Alfred's system failure. _ERROR _remained steadfast on the circle of screens, however, and Arthur had no choice but to forcibly eject the remote, dragging it out with his fingers. The ship gave a sigh and everything went dark, leaving just the husk to drift through the scan.

Alfred stirred, pushing himself up on his hands.

"Wh-what happened?" he asked dazedly.

"You almost destroyed my bloody ship," Arthur snapped. He could barely see him - just the bright blue of his eyes glowing. "We've got to get that core malfunction of yours seen to."

"Can it be fixed?"

"I expect so, with the right parts. I know someone here in Port Opal who can take a look at you." Arthur glared at him. "In the meantime, do _not _try to integrate your system with my ship'sn again."

"I'm sorry."

"Hm." Arthur said nothing more, turning away to slot the remote back in. It clicked into place and the ship's heart restarted, thrumming through the walls. The lights all came back on, the _HMS Mercury _holograph back in place, and the screens spread themselves into their familiar arc, rushing through the vast numbers of the initialisation process.

Alfred shakily got up, coming to Arthur's side. He was careful to keep his distance, though, not venturing too close to the control panel.

The main screen resettled to the scan progress bar: 97%, 98%, 99%...

It was no sooner complete than one of the secondary screens enlarged, superimposing itself over the scan bar. It was a live feed from the harbour plate; Ludwig Beilschmidt, a severe-looking 901-Z, appeared.

"Kirkland," he said crisply. "Your ship went offline during the scan. Do you have anything to declare?"

"A malfunctioning Model 704," Arthur replied.

"Legally purchased?"

"Negative."

Ludwig nodded.

"I'll need to come aboard," he said.

"Of course." Arthur tapped in the release code for the hull door. The live transmission ended, leaving the screen blank.

"What's happening?" Alfred asked, clutching at his soldier.

"A manual check, that's all," Arthur said. "The scan is supposed to make sure everything is above board - so to speak - but in the event of an imcomplete scan, they'll check in person."

"What are they looking for? Stolen goods?"

Arthur snorted.

"Goodness, no," he said. "This is Port Opal, the hub of the black market. Naturally we don't want any city investigators or police cheating their way in using copied holographs or solar-prints."

"Makes sense." Alfred paused. "But I interrupted the scan-"

"Right, so they'll want to check it wasn't deliberate." Arthur waved his hand at him. "After all, you could be in the employ of the government, posing as a stolen Artificial."

"Wouldn't that mean you're in the employ of the government too?" Alfred pointed out. "Since you stole me?"

"I suppose so."

"But don't they know you here? Don't they know you would never do that?"

"Wouldn't I?" Arthur said absently. "I might, you know - if the price was right."

Alfred was quiet. He didn't seem to know how to answer that. Arthur glanced at him archly.

"Humans aren't programmable," he went on. "We change our minds, we change our loyalties. All we want to do is survive - and believe me, we'll do whatever it takes."

The door to the bridge slid open and Ludwig entered. He was one of a handful of recalibrated ex-service Artificials used to guard the gate, ruthlessly good at his job. He nodded to Arthur, who was shrugging on his coat.

"Manual search of hold complete," he said. "I just need to check you and the 704."

"Of course." Arthur rolled up his sleeve, presenting the underside of his wrist to the guard. Ludwig took out a needle, unwrapping it, and drew a pinch of blood from the blue vein closest to Arthur's skin. He smeared a drop onto a thin bar of green glass, a scan line running over it on contact. Ludwig observed the results closely, tapping through a few figures and vitals before making his decision.

"All clear." Ludwig nodded to Arthur once again before turning his attention to Alfred. "Just the 704."

"Do be careful with him," Arthur said, wiping his wrist clean. "He has a core error."

Alfred seemed a bit disgruntled at this - as though Arthur was revealing a particularly dirty secret. Ludwig was unpeturbed, taking Alfred firmly by the hair and forcing him to bend.

"Hey!" Alfred reached to grab Ludwig's wrist, struggling with his grasp. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Wary, Arthur came closer. He could see Alfred's soldier programming starting to rouse itself from deep within his ruined system; his grip on Ludwig's arm was firm, calculated.

"Alfred, it's just a routine check," he said, touching the 704's elbow. "He's not going to to harm you."

At this Ludwig managed to swipe the glass bar over the back of Alfred's neck. He let him go, stepping back to examine the data.

"Decommissioned military Model 704-776, 9.3 years in service, given name Jones, Alfred," Ludwig rattled off. "In service to Bonnefoy, Francis, at Xanadu Pleasure Dome in the City of Eden."

"That's right," Arthur drawled, rubbing at the back of Alfred's neck to ease him. "That's where I stole him from."

Ludwig gave a curt nod.

"That's all in order. Welcome to Port Opal."

"Thank you." A touch of sarcasm on Arthur's part.

"I suggest you get that error looked at," Ludwig said, glancing at Alfred.

"That's why we're here." Arthur crossed to the control panel, ejecting the glass remote. The ship went quiet. "Come along, Alfred - places to be."

With a last, distrustful look at Ludwig, Alfred followed. They made their way through the silent ship, the 901-X not far behind them.

"My error," Alfred muttered worriedly. "Is... is it really that bad?"

"It interferes with close-contact data," Arthur replied. "Left unchecked and it could become very serious."

"O-oh."

"But I know someone who should be able to fix you," Arthur went on. "Or, well... two people, to be precise."

"Two?"

"Mm." Arthur nodded. "One is a genius engineer - and the other, well... he designed you."

* * *

Very little of Port Opal was holographic - that was what Arthur liked best about it. It was _real_, flesh and bone and brick, it smelt of hot oil and roasted meat, laundry and chemicals, smoke and sweat and sex. The narrow streets were crammed full of vendors, stalls, shops with veils on the windows; restaurants, pubs, repair shops. There were brothels here, too, but less opulent, less of a show, some with humans in. In Eden it was illegal for prostitutes - Artificial, Synthetic or human - to stand out on the street; but every corner of Port Opal's narrow walkways was taken.

It was evening and the streetlamps were already aflame (real fire, too). Tomorrow Arthur would get to business, being as it was that his hold was full of spoils. Tonight, however, there were other matters to attend to and he beckoned Alfred through the town, leading the way through its wild hot streets. There were performers and live music at every turn - not permitted in prim, perfect Eden - and Alfred kept stopping to watch, fascinated by the feats of tossed fire and dancers in pale chiffon and electric violins.

"Alfred, we'll have plenty of time to look afterwards," Arthur promised, tugging him away from a tap-dancing accordianist. "Come along."

"But what _is _it?" Alfred asked, stumbling along after him. "That crazy thing?!"

"It's an accordian. It's a musical instrument they used to play years ago. They're hard to find now. He must have paid a fortune for it."

Or stole it from somewhere - much more likely in Port Opal.

Arthur ducked down an alleyway strung with red paper lanterns. This street had been built into a rather steep hill and had steps ascending, cut into the stone. They made their way up, past a young lady singing an opera from a top window and an outdoor pancake shop, to a small store with a neon sign in Chinese.

"Is this it?" Alfred was frowning at the sign, trying to compute it.

"This is the place." Arthur pushed open the door, a bell singing overhead as they entered.

The place stank of engine oil and grease. It was narrow and dark, the walls cluttered with the parts of just about every machine ever created - from the Model T Ford to the most recent Synthetic - giving the place a cold, hard glitter.

From behind the counter, a huge Artificial rose, putting down his book. He had pale hair and eyes and a powerful frame - ex-military like Alfred, a Russian Model 332.

"Good evening, Ivan," Arthur said calmly. "Is Yao around?"

"He is." Ivan came around the desk. He was smiling - but his smile was slightly off, as usual. 332s hadn't been made to mimic humans quite so well as the USA-made 704s, hence Ivan's expressions were a touch unsettling. "What do you need him for?"

Ah. Arthur couldn't fault him for asking. Yao had reprogrammed Ivan first and foremost as a "guard dog", of sorts - and in Port Opal you just never knew.

"I recently acquired this 704," he replied, gesturing to Alfred. "Unfortunately he has a bit of a core error. I was hoping Yao might know what to do about it."

Ivan nodded, looking at Alfred with interest.

"A 704?" His smile widened. "I have not seen one in a very long time."

He stepped a bit closer - and Alfred moved away, watching him warily. His fists clenched. Arthur could see him becoming very skittish and cleared his throat to redirect Ivan's attention.

"Ivan, would you mind awfully fetching Yao?"

"Of course." Ivan straightened, moving away; but his eyes were locked on Alfred still, not leaving him until he vanished through the curtain into the back room.

"What the hell is his problem?" Alfred asked coldy, looking at Arthur. The tone was an unnatural one for him and Arthur frowned, discomfited.

"It's not surprising," he replied. "He's a USSR Model 332, you're a USA Model 704. You were created to fight one another. Even with your memories wiped and your systems reprogrammed, that you raise one another's hackles is natural."

"...I fought him?"

"Well, I don't expect that you and he ever fought one another personally," Arthur said. "But the war was... well, USSR and the USA couldn't see eye-to-eye about very much. It was inevitable." He stretched, his back popping. "Of course, it's long over and you and Ivan are both decommissioned. There's no need for any animosity. I doubt you've ever laid eyes on one another before."

Alfred folded his arms sulkily.

"He's the one who-"

"Yes, well, we need to be on Yao's good side, all the same," Arthur interrupted briskly. "Just don't let him get to you."

"I'll try not to," Alfred grumbled.

The curtain swept aside and Ivan came back, accompanied by a slender Chinese man in bunched overalls. His long dark hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail and he was still holding a spanner.

"Ivan tells me you have a 704!" he said excitedly. He trotted over, shoving Arthur out of the way to look at Alfred. "Aiyah! What splendid craftsmanship!" He circled the Artificial. "I haven't seen a 704 in many years!" He reached up to seize Alfred's face, pulling him to his level. "This is a beautiful one - lovely eyes, very handsome."

"Thank you," Alfred said. Artificials weren't equipped with humility and so he took the compliment whole-heartedly. "Arthur says that, too."

"I expect he does," Yao said slyly, smirking at Arthur. "What else _could _he say? You are as radiant as the sun."

"Indeed," Arthur said dryly. "It beggars belief that he was made for combat."

"Who doesn't like a handsome soldier?" Yao patted Alfred's cheek and began to pull him towards the back room. "Come, then. Let me examine you."

Arthur shot a glance at Ivan as he ambled back to the desk. The massive 332 seemed ambivalent towards the exchange, reaching for his book.

"What are you reading?" Arthur asked, pausing at the desk

"_The Brothers Karamazov_ by Dostoyevsky." Ivan showed him. The cover was in Russian. "It is very interesting. Best enjoyed in its original language."

"That's usually the case," Arthur agreed. "Russian books are hard to get hold of, though. I bet it cost a fortune."

"Yao got it for me," Ivan said warmly. "I do not like to ask how much it cost him."

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

"I bet Yao got a good price on it," he muttered.

He stepped into the workshop beyond, leaving Ivan behind the curtain with his book. Yao had cleared space on the workbench and instructed Alfred to lie across it in his recharge position.

"He is malfunctioning?" Yao asked of Arthur, rolling up his sleeves.

"I think it's a core error," Arthur replied helplessly.

"Hm." Yao looked quite grave as he hooked Alfred up to a large screen precariously balanced on one of the sideboards. He began to type, Chinese characters flitting across the display. "I'll be putting you into stand-by," he said to Alfred. "It gives a better overall picture of the core."

"Okay." Alfred outstretched his arm towards Arthur. "Arthur..."

"I'm here." Arthur came to the table, taking his hand. The Artificial's cool skin came against his, the pulse of metal tendons tight around his bones. He gave Alfred a reassuring squeeze as Yao sent the command; the 704 shuddered and went quite still, the blue light going out of his eyes.

"A core error, you think?" Yao asked briskly, watching the screen; a picture of Alfred's system was rendering itself, the engineer scrolling over it at close quarters.

"Yes," Arthur replied. "He has malfunctioned twice in the past twenty-four hours, both times interfering with surrounding holographs."

"Static?"

"No." Arthur paused. "It's... the, uh, the war."

Yao looked at him.

"That is serious," he said in a low voice. "All ex-combat Artificials have their memories wiped. To begin remembering again is a sign of major damage to the system's core..." He trailed off, leaning close to the screen.

"What is it?" Arthur asked. He was nervous, clutching at Alfred's hand.

"Nothing," Yao said absently. "I have just never seen a 704 in such detail before."

"Well, they're rare, aren't they?" Arthur said haughtily.

"Like gold-dust," Yao agreed. "Parts are impossible to get."

Arthur felt his heart sink.

"...Impossible?" he repeated.

"Some, yes." Yao waved his spanner at him. "All used up. This is an old model."

"What about parts from broken ones?"

Yao looked at him.

"704s self-destruct when they break," he said. "Didn't you know that?"

"Wh... what?" Arthur was speechless. He looked at Alfred - clutching his hand, at perfect peace on the workbench.

"They have nuclear batteries," Yao said. His tone was factual, wholly unsympathetic. "If their core breaks or becomes too corrupted to function, they are programmed to explode. They _were _weapons, after all."

"Did... you say _nuclear_?" Arthur asked faintly. Again he looked at Alfred - and now he saw him in a whole new light: a lethal timebomb ready to blow a hole in the universe.

"Yes." Yao rolled his eyes impatiently. "You did not do your research before stealing such a dangerous type of Artificial?"

"Can it be removed?" Arthur asked desperately.

"You cannot remove his battery if you want him to be sentient."

"Replaced, then?"

Yao shook his head.

"It is a very powerful battery," he expained. "The equivalent would be the size of your ship."

"If they're so dangerous, how is it that they can be scrapped?" Arthur challenged, reminded of Francis' threats.

"704s are not scrapped," Yao said. "They are salvaged. You remove the diamond spine and other parts of value while the Artificial is still stable enough; then they are sealed in concrete and dropped below sea-level to detonate." The engineer shrugged. "Why do you think there are no parts?"

Arthur could take pleasure only in realising that Francis couldn't have known just how dangerous Alfred was, otherwise he'd never have purchased him. To his chagrin, however, he now found that he had done the slimy frog a favour. Alfred was well and truly his problem now (and _what _a problem it was).

"I am speaking in hypotheticals," Yao said, studying the screen. "I should make it clear that his core _is _damaged. It is because of age and damage sustained during his military service. There is nothing that can be done about it. All things - humans and objects - deteriorate over time."

"And... and how long until he...?"

Yao shrugged.

"I cannot say for certain," he said. "It is very difficult to calculate. But it will happen, it is inevitable - and I would advise you not to be anywhere near him when it does."

Arthur looked at Alfred, completely still on the workbench; prostrate, helpless.

"So what do I do now?" he asked quietly, touching Alfred's cheek. "What can I do with you?"

"Salvage?" Yao spun away from the screen, holding up his spanner. "He's already under - it won't take long-"

"No!" Arthur threw himself between Yao and the Artificial. "No, you're not ripping him apart!"

"I'll give you a good price for the spine."

"The answer is _no_," Arthur said coldly. "That's not what I brought him here for."

"You brought him here for a diagnosis." Yao shrugged. "I have given it to you. He is a walking time-bomb."

"Even so, you're not pulling out his spine!" Arthur snapped. "I didn't rescue him so I could sell him off bit-by-bit-"

"Rescue?" Yao snorted. "He is just a machine, Arthur. Do not forget that."

"I see _you _bought _your _machine a rare, expensive Russian book," Arthur pointed out icily.

Yao stiffened.

"That is none of your business," he said.

"And it's none of _your _business what I do with Alfred." Arthur began pulling out the wires. "Wake him up."

"Fine." Yao typed in a command, releasing it with a smart tap of a key, and the screen went blank. Alfred opened his eyes, sitting up.

"Are you alright?" Yao's words simply made Arthur all the more affectionate towards the Artificial, stroking at the back of his neck.

"Mm." Alfred glanced towards Yao. "Did you fix me?"

"I-" Yao began.

"Not yet," Arthur interrupted briskly, taking Alfred's elbow. "But soon. There's... there's just someone else we need to see first."

"The designer?" Alfred slid off the table at Arthur's command, being led to the door.

"Yes."

"You mean Honda?" Yao drawled from behind them. "You know he won't see you."

"He won't see _you_, perhaps," Arthur replied curtly. "Goodnight, Yao. Thank you for your help."

"Make sure you pay Ivan!" Yao called as they passed through the curtain. "This isn't a free service!"

Naturally; Yao never did anything for free. At the counter Arthur exchanged money with Ivan, who looked reluctant to be distracted from his book. Alfred stood well back, looking fixedly at the walls.

"He was unable to help?" Ivan asked politely.

"Unfortunately. I'm going to go and see Dr Honda."

Ivan nodded.

"Yes," he said. "It is always best to explore every option." He sank back into his seat, taking up his book. "Goodnight."

Arthur bid him the same and swept out of the shop, Alfred padding after him.

"So I'm not fixed?" he asked, following Arthur back down the street.

"Yao doesn't have the parts, my dear," Arthur said absently. "704s are... well, so rare-"

"So what can we do?" Alfred caught Arthur's hand, holding him still. "Arthur, I... I don't want to hurt you or something, I..."

"I know." Arthur met his eyes - cold, electronic. "It's alright, we'll see Dr Honda. He'll... he'll think of something-"

"And what if he can't?" Alfred held tighter. "Will you... scrap me, Arthur?"

"Of course not," Arthur whispered. "Alfred, I risked my neck to save you - so Francis couldn't-"

"I know," Alfred said. He lowered his eyes, holding tight to Arthur's hand. "...But what else do you do with a malfunctioning Artificial?"

"I'm not giving up on you that easily," Arthur said firmly. "And neither are you."

Alfred tilted his head at him. He was quiet for a long moment.

"I feel," he said slowly, "that I should kiss you. Is that... I mean, would that be alright? Would you like me to?"

"Well, you've sucked all the passion out of it," Arthur grumbled, "but alright."

"Okay." Alfred leaned down, pressing his cold mouth to Arthur's, taking his shoulders. Arthur tilted his head, perfectly still. Breathe, exhale. Alfred never tasted of anything - bodiless, nothingness. His touch was programmed, his words coded, his being all in blessed binary.

"Passion," he said against Arthur's neck. "I don't understand."

"No," Arthur sighed, pressing back into the wall, the smoke and neon settling around them. He pulled Alfred to him. "Of course you don't."

"Is it important?" Alfred misread, oblivious; he thought Arthur wanted things he didn't.

Arthur didn't stop him. They weren't in Eden anymore. They wouldn't be arrested, not out here at the edge of the stars where nobody cared.

"It's what makes humans unprogrammable," Arthur said breathlessly. "It's what makes us do stupid things. We want, _we want_. We're willing to burn up the world."

Alfred lifted him against the wall. His hands were tight under his thighs, holding, rocking, ready. Arthur kissed him, tasteless: all but atoms. Yes, he wanted, _wanted _- to be fucked by a nuclear bomb with the face of an angel, to feel nothing and nowhere, something, somewhere.

* * *

One part remaining. Maybe it will be up soon but I have to write an essay for my MA first... :C


End file.
